The Double Cross

by Clare O'Donohue

  Susanne gave each student a small sketch pad and a pencil, and told them to go outside to look for something that might inspire them.

  “Our first quilt is to express your feelings about the world around you. I find it helps to think small—walk outside and take a fresh look at things you pass every day. When you find something you like, draw it. Don’t worry about getting a lot of detail, just make a simple sketch,” she said. “Organic items are better than buildings for this purpose because the lines will not be straight. And if you want to draw a tree, for example, don’t stand far away. Don’t worry about getting the whole tree. Walk up to it, look up, look down. Find an interesting angle. Then draw what you see. And don’t worry if you think you can’t draw. The drawing is just a reference.”

  “Why can’t we just bring cameras and work from photographs?” Frank asked. “I’m sure George has a digital camera I could borrow. Save the trouble of sketching.”

  “You can. Of course you can work from photos,” Susanne said. “But I find that if people are nervous about their quilting skills, it helps to work from a sketch. If you work from a photo, you might be tempted to try and translate it too literally to fabric. But if you work from a sketch, you have already taken a step away from reality and it’s easier to take a second step as you move to fabric. Once you are more experienced, obviously you can save yourself the trouble of a sketch, if you prefer.”

  As Susanne talked, I could see her relax. Good students or not, they were her students and she was going to teach them what she could. The only question was whether anyone in this odd group wanted to learn.

  CHAPTER 6

  As the class dispersed, I stood outside and enjoyed the quiet. On the path leading to the woods, I could see Frank and George engaged in what seemed to be a serious discussion, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Helen sat on a rock about ten feet from the men, and as I watched her, it seemed she was purposely staying close. When the men moved, she moved, but always keeping some distance. After a few minutes, George glanced over and saw me watching him. He moved back from Frank and loudly said something about the New York Yankees, then walked into the house. Frank turned toward the woods, walking right past his wife without acknowledging her. I felt a little bad for Helen, but I didn’t know her and for once my curiosity was not going to get the better of me. With nothing more to see outside, I headed back to the classroom to help Susanne set up for the next step.

  “Have you seen the postcards I brought?” Susanne was searching her tote bag.

  “The old-fashioned ones? They were by the ribbons.”

  After an exhaustive search, we gave up. “They were antiques,” Susanne said. “It’s so strange.”

  “Maybe the raccoons that took the collage took them,” I suggested. “Or maybe it’s ghosts.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if this old place was haunted.”

  After about forty minutes, the students began trickling back in. Alysse or Alice—I couldn’t tell which—had made two sketches and her sister had made three. Like everything else about them, their sketches looked alike, yet they fussed about which sketch would make the best quilt and demanded Susanne’s attention. I floated around, and looked at what the others had drawn, until Susanne could pry herself away and explain the next step.

  “The next thing is to take a piece of black felt,” Susanne said. “Everyone has a piece that’s twelve inches square. The felt will give your quilt some weight and be strong enough to hold the embellishments we’ll add later. Lay it flat on your table. Then, using your sketch as a guide, choose fabric that loosely represents the background in your sketch. Start with a few pieces and audition them, play with them, and if you like the fabrics, you can begin cutting them to represent the sky or grass or water in your sketch. Focus only on the background, and once we’ve done that, we’ll go on to the next part of the process.”

  I admired the way Susanne explained the process. I’d made quilts with her before and knew she was a patient teacher, but she was also a very good one. She slowly broke down a very intimidating idea—making an art quilt—into steps that took the fear out of the process. She also walked around offering suggestions, praise, and encouragement, which gave me hope that even this group could be transformed into art quilters.

  The students chose fabric to play with and they each set themselves up at a workstation. Perhaps workstation is too kind a word. Each person had a plastic folding table that was too low to be comfortable if they were standing and too high if they were sitting on one of the metal folding chairs. There were only two cutting mats and one rotary cutter, so I spent the morning running back and forth to Susanne’s car, where she had stored several of everything. Her overabundance of caution was now looking like good sense.

  The twins seemed the most tentative about their projects. They took turns asking for Susanne’s advice, and one of them went back outside to make a new sketch after she’d decided she didn’t like anything she’d already drawn.

  Helen, on the other hand, took to the process quite naturally. Her sketch of a tree next to a stream just a few yards from the classroom was quite detailed, but she seemed to be having an easy time as she turned the sketch into cloth.

  “Doing okay?” I asked, though I could see that she was.

  “I hope so,” she said. “This is really fun.” She moved several pieces of fabric over the felt, laying them flat, then pleating them, then discarding them and trying another. “I don’t often get much of a chance to focus on myself. I have six grandchildren.”

  “That must keep you busy,” I offered.

  I sensed that she wanted to tell me all about them, and I was right. After explaining why each child was special, she smiled. “They don’t get it from me.”

  “Don’t say that. I’m sure you have lots of talents. You’re already a pretty good artist.” I pointed to the sketch that lay next to her pile of fabrics.

  “If I do alright, maybe I’ll start making quilts for the church auction. I’m very active in the community. Keeps me busy.”

  “And it helps others.”

  She nodded. “I do what I can.”

  Message received. Helen was a giving, yet humble, member of the Winston community, and she wanted to be praised without seeming to want it. There were dozens like her in Archers Rest.

  “I’m not sure I have the right blue for the sky.” She scrunched up her face as if she was intensely staring at the three blue silks before her, but I could see that she was watching her husband out of the corner of her eye.

  Frank, who was only a few feet away from us, had cornered Susanne, asking more questions about her than about quilting. Susanne kept pointing toward his sketch of a rock formation and suggesting dark greens and purples as perfect colors to represent the rocks, but Frank had no interest in her ideas. Instead he stood uncomfortably close to her, smiling in a way that suggested he had mistaken the classroom for a singles bar. But the only man Susanne was interested in, other than her husband, was her grandson. Frank, no matter his charm, was out of luck.

  “I saw a deer when I was walking,” Frank told her. “I like deer.”

  “Yes, they’re beautiful animals,” Susanne agreed. “You can add one in if you like.”

  “To hunt,” Frank corrected her. “Not to look at. Ever do any hunting?”

  “No. My husband and I are not hunters.”

  It was the fourth time in five minutes that Susanne had mentioned her husband, but Frank wasn’t getting the hint. Of course, any man who would flirt so openly just a few feet from his wife wouldn’t let a small detail like a husband get in his way.

  “People up here like to get out in the open, enjoy nature. You enjoy nature, don’t you?” Frank moved closer to Susanne, who was trapped against one of the worktables.

  “Enjoying the class?” I interrupted, much to Susanne’s relief. She quickly moved on to the twins, while I stayed with Frank. “Your wife is doing some amazing work. Take a look.”

  Frank’s
smile faded. We were in a standoff, but I held my ground. He struck me as a man who used his charisma to get what he wanted, and when that didn’t work, he tried intimidation. “Not this time,” I tried to say with my eyes. He held my gaze for what seemed like an eternity; then he blinked. I smiled and turned away. I left Frank with nothing to do but work on his quilt and talk to his wife. I moved on to Pete. He had no real talent for the art, but he was earnest and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  “He’s a piece of work,” Pete said, nodding toward Frank. Frank caught Pete and I looking at him and scowled back.

  “Not friends, I take it,” I said.

  “Let’s just say we have a different way of looking at women.” He blushed a little. “Of course, he’s still married, and my wife just left me, so maybe my way is wrong.”

  “I doubt it,” I said as I glanced back toward Frank.

  “That’s why I’m here. Rita thought I should get out of the house and maybe use the class as an opportunity to meet someone new.” He nodded over to the twins. “Not what I had in mind though.”

  “What’s your type?”

  “Why? Do you know someone?”

  I shrugged. I did think that, maybe, he might be a good match for Bernie. They were about the same age and had the same laid-back quality about them. I didn’t know if she would think so. But, then, I didn’t even know where she was. Eleanor had agreed to spend the day helping Rita set up the shop, but I couldn’t picture Bernie being anxious to offer her services. Maybe I needed to get her into the classroom for a casual introduction to Pete.

  “I’m open to any woman who has the patience to put up with me.” He smiled and held up two pieces of fabric. “Now, what exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

  “This would be a good color for the sky,” I suggested. I pointed to a hand-painted fabric that had streaks of pink and blue across it.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He cut a four-inch strip and laid it across the top of his felt square. “Looks good,” he admitted. “Like a sunset.” He grabbed a piece of dark navy dupioni silk. “I could put a small strip of this below it, as if it were the ground for the woods. It gets quite dark in there. Very spooky, really.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind if I ever take a walk in the woods at night,” I said. “I think you’re getting the hang of this.”

  “It’s actually a lot of fun,” he said. “I’ve lived in the area most of my life and I don’t think I’ve ever looked at the trees in quite the same way as I did today. I was kind of dreading this, to tell you the truth. Figured I’d be looking for the exit the whole time. But this is cool.”

  “When my grandmother offered to teach me to quilt, I felt the same way; then I fell in love with it. And the way Susanne teaches, you can do whatever you like.”

  “My wife would say that I’ve been doing what I like for thirty years,” he said. “So maybe that’s why this class is so appealing.”

  “Her loss, Pete,” I said, and I meant it. I was glad to see that Susanne was already winning over students and that someone new was finding out how enjoyable it could be to make a quilt. But I was also getting quite stuck on the idea of reminding Bernie that there were nice men in the world. Nice, single men that didn’t own broken-down inns or condescend to quilters.

  For a moment I thought maybe I shouldn’t focus so heavily on Bernie’s romantic problems and should instead spend a little time on my own, but that made me think of Jesse. And that made me think that he’d be pleased to see me spending my time on quilting and romance, and not, as he put it, getting myself into dangerous situations. And that made me think that maybe he should trust my ability to get out of dangerous situations—and I realized that in ten seconds I’d gone from missing Jesse to being mad at him. “That’s why,” I told myself, “I should focus on Bernie’s love life. Less chance I’ll get emotional whiplash.”

  That was the thing about Jesse. He thought that just by staying away from crime scenes and criminals I was staying out of trouble. He had no idea how dangerous romance could be.

  CHAPTER 7

  We all gathered for dinner in the B-and-B’s mismatched dining room. Having skipped the traditional first-night “welcome to the quilt retreat” celebration, George and Rita put together lasagna and salad for the whole group after the first day of class was over.

  Normally I’m against all forms of forced socializing, but I was glad of the dinner because it would give me a chance to finally see Rita. For the moment, though, the only Olnhausen in the room was George, holding an armful of quilts and looking for a place to set them down. When he saw me and Susanne standing near the buffet, he rushed over.

  “I want to show you these. These are the quilts I was talking about,” he said.

  He laid them out on a table, and Susanne, Eleanor, and I starting going through them.

  “I would say they’re all quite old. Maybe a hundred years,” Eleanor said. “They’re all classic patterns: hunter’s star, log cabin, double cross. Really lovely workmanship.”

  “Are they valuable?” Helen had moved closer to get a good view, as did one of the twins, Frank, and Pete. George moved aside to let Helen get a better view, and as he did, I noticed the way she smiled at him. It was a loving smile. But George didn’t pay attention. He was looking at my grandmother, and she was looking at the quilts.

  “They aren’t in the best condition,” Eleanor said. “I’m not sure what they would be worth, but they are beautiful.”

  “Whatever they’re worth, we’ll find a place for them once we’re done with the remodeling,” George said. “Nice to have something from the house to showcase.”

  The twin started refolding the quilts. “You should store them somewhere safe,” she said. “I can put them away for you if you like.”

  “That’s very nice of you, miss.” George directed her to an armoire in the corner of the dining room, and we all watched her lovingly place each quilt inside it. “Everyone’s so helpful,” he said as he headed back toward the kitchen.

  I noticed that Bernie was the only one who hadn’t come to look at the quilts. I sat next to her, and we smiled, but she didn’t seem to want to talk, so I dug into my dinner instead.

  “Thanks again for today.” Pete was behind me with a plate of lasagna.

  “Join us.” I gestured to an empty chair across from me. “This is Bernie Avallone. Bernie, this is Pete . . .”

  “Pete Carson.” He shook her hand then smiled at me. “You’re the last of the ladies who came up to help. Nell was telling me about you. About all of you.”

  “It sounds like you’re having a nice time in the class.”

  “Better than I thought.”

  “Maybe Pete can show you around town,” I suggested.

  Bernie looked at me. “I’m sure he has better things to do.”

  “Not really,” Pete said, smiling.

  As I looked for a way to make myself scarce, a woman walked into the room.

  She had to be Rita, though she was not at all what I’d pictured. She was tall and model thin, with chic razor-short blonde hair. She wore black pants with a black turtleneck, a zebra-print belt, and high-heeled boots. A sparkly diamond bracelet hung from her wrist, and her diamond ring seemed larger than her finger. She looked like one of those women who wander Beverly Hills with dogs in their purses. Of all of us, she seemed the least likely to own a tear-down B-and-B in the mountains.

  “She has not changed one bit,” Bernie said. “Not one bit. Can you believe it? How does someone not age in forty-five years?”

  “You are every bit as beautiful,” I told Bernie, and I meant it. Bernie might not have Rita’s Paris-runway fashion sense, but she had warmth and kindness and a smile that made everyone who saw it feel happier.

  Pete looked at Bernie. “You know Rita?”

  “Old friends,” I said.

  “Ex-friends,” Bernie corrected me.

  Pete looked at me for answers, but I just made a face that I hoped would convey that, how
ever dramatic Bernie’s statement seemed, it was a minor thing that should not detract in any way from his interest in her. It was a lot to say with a smile, but Pete smiled back and seemed to go along.

  “She’s a bit much sometimes,” he offered, in a supportive way that made me like him more. “She’s always disappearing on George. I was actually kind of surprised when they told me about opening the place as an inn. Seemed like more work than Rita, or really either of them, would enjoy.”

  “Then why are they doing it?” I asked.

  Pete shrugged. “Maybe they wanted a project. They retired early, and instead of the good life they got bored.”

  “They probably had no idea how much work it would require,” I said. “They seem a bit in over their heads, with the condition of this place.”

  Bernie put her head on my shoulder. “I suppose I can’t avoid her anymore.”

  “You haven’t seen her yet?” I asked. “What did you do today?”

  “I borrowed Eleanor’s car, went into town, and shopped. I couldn’t face it. I don’t know what I was thinking by coming here.”

  It looked for a moment like Bernie might run from the room, but Rita glanced our way and all chance for escape was lost. We sat and watched her walk across the room, coming closer to us with each step. I could feel the tension rising in Bernie, so I took her hand under the table.

  “Bernadette,” Rita called out. She grabbed Bernie and pulled her up, forcing her to let go of my hand. She hugged her close until Bernie managed to get free. “I have thought of you so often over the years. I’ve missed you terribly.”

  “This is Nell,” was Bernie’s reply. “She’s Eleanor’s granddaughter.”

  Rita held out a perfectly manicured hand. “Your grandmother is a lifesaver. I’ve never met anyone who knows as much about anything as your grandmother does about quilting.”

  “And she’s happy to share it,” I said. “Did you get inspired?”